The First Patient

by Michael Palmer

  Even now, in the dense silence, his voice was salt on the raw, exposed wound of her mind.

  And yet with each passing second, each agonizing minute, she felt her power to resist grow.

  If, as it seemed now, she was going to die, she was going to die victorious, with her secret and her self-esteem intact. Maybe sometime after her death Lester would come forward and the FBI would find and thoroughly search her car. . . . Maybe they would find the inhaler. . . . Maybe they would test it and determine that there was something out of the ordinary about it. . . . Maybe . . .

  Alison smiled savagely at the notion that it was the very hatred Griswold had created in her that had kept her from disclosing what he wanted to know. It was the pain he caused that made her fight back. It was the knowledge that there was probably no way he could let her live that would keep her from ever telling him about Lester and what precious little she did know about the inhaler tucked beneath the driver's side seat of her car.

  Still, she feared the pain.

  When she needed to, she passed the hours by focusing her hatred on Griswold's visage—his basketball head, his balding pate, his pinched face, and his small, despicable eyes.

  She tried lifting her head off the thin military pillow. The muscles in the back of her neck allowed the movement, but only at a painful price.

  How could one human do this to another?

  It was a stupid question. Humans had been torturing other humans for as long as there had been the means to do it.

  And God made man in his own image . . . and God saw that it was good.

  Not this time.

  Mercifully, her eyes closed and sleep descended. As she was drifting off, she found herself focusing on why Griswold seemed so insistent on questioning her over and over regarding the inhaler. She had answered his questions not only plausibly but with the truth. Beyond the fact that Griswold had been handling the inhalers at all, she knew of nothing that he had done wrong. Now his persistence in not believing her had her wondering.

  By the time she had been able to surrender and doze off, Alison had decided that no matter what she said about the inhaler, Griswold was unlikely to believe her. Sooner or later, regardless of what she divulged—truth or lie—he was going to kill her. By torturing her the way he had, he had more or less crossed the line and had left himself no other option. At the very least, she decided, with nothing to lose, she should do what she could to unsettle him—to drag things out and to make him wonder if she might not be the only one who knew about him.

  When she opened her eyes again, the monster was there, staring down at her, still dressed in his shirt and tie and black Secret Service suit.

  "Long day?" he asked.

  "Go to hell."

  "I don't know why, but for some reason I don't think you like me."

  "Being a pervert pedophile and a sadist would be enough to accomplish that, but you're a traitor, too."

  Nearly submerged beneath the fleshy folds of his brows, Griswold's eyes flashed.

  "Why would you say that?"

  "You know why."

  "Tell me."

  "Go to hell."

  Griswold filled the large syringe with his torture drug.

  "Tell me," he said sweetly, inserting the needle into the rubber port on the IV tubing.

  "I've been workin' on the railroad," she sang as loudly as her stressed vocal cords could manage, "all the livelong day. I've been—"

  Smiling in a most unsettling way, Griswold pulled the needle out and set the syringe aside.

  "I've got a better idea," he said, suddenly looking very full of himself.

  Theatrically he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and produced an Alupent inhaler.

  The Alupent inhaler, Alison hoped edgily.

  She pressed her lips together, testing how vigorously she was going to be able to resist.

  "I think it's time," Griswold said, "that you and our fearless leader developed a common bond. I don't have the time or, frankly, the interest in explaining this little beauty to you, but it sure will be fun to see how you handle it—now and in the near future."

  I knew it! Alison thought. The inhaler! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

  "You are really slime."

  "Actually," Griswold said, "I sort of like the big guy. I voted for him, and I never would have agreed to go along with this if I hadn't been—"

  "Threatened with exposure because of this little baby-love peccadillo you've got going on here. That was your biggest sin of all—leaving yourself open to blackmail and extortion. Griswold, you are just so stupid."

  "That's why I'm standing here and you're lying there," he said, seeming a bit rattled.

  "What goes around comes around. You'll get yours. Who's blackmailing you? What's in that inhaler?"

  "Call it a high-tech time release capsule. Certain chemicals in here enter your bloodstream and settle in throughout your brain, where I can set them off with a push of any of these little buttons. Some of them will make you act loopy in any of a number of amusing ways; one of them will make you act wild; one pair will kill you dead."

  He produced a stubby black remote transmitter and held it up for her to see. It reminded Alison of an ice-cream sandwich and had seven or eight cream-colored diamond-shaped control buttons lined up in two columns along one surface.

  At last Griswold had done it. At last she knew for certain what was going on, even if she had no idea how the chemicals got to where they were intended, or who was blackmailing the man to administer them, or why. She searched desperately for some way—any way—she could get free, at least long enough to get word to Gabe about what was happening.

  "Treat, give it up. Give it up and no one's the worse for what you've done. Give it up and I can tell people how you cooperated. You—"

  "Okay, lady," he said, pinching her nostrils closed until they hurt, "I've heard enough. Big breaths, now."

  He rested his massive hand against her chin, pried her mouth open, and jammed the business end of the inhaler between her teeth. Then he sealed the opening in place with his hand and waited until she breathed in to send a jet of mist into her throat and lungs.

  Alison was in no condition to put up much resistance.

  The first jolt of the stimulant tasted like rusty water, the second made her dizzy, and the third made her dizzier still. Griswold's grip tightened. Another spray, then another. Her heart was pounding, sending shock waves through her head. Acid jetted up into her throat and she struggled to swallow it again, rather than to aspirate it and have it scald the inside of her lungs.

  Instead of opening up her bronchioles, the repeated dosing now seemed to send them into spasm, smothering her. Another dose and she knew her nervous system was going to explode into a full-blown, grand mal seizure. She managed one final glare at her nemesis, hoping that image of his face might stay with her into the hereafter. Then she closed her eyes tightly and waited to die.

  CHAPTER 52

  Any word about her?" Gabe asked.

  Stoddard shook his head.

  "Mark Fuller from Internal Affairs says it's too soon to be worried."

  "That's nuts. Something's happened to her."

  "He says tomorrow morning he'll start putting people on it."

  "I don't want to wait any longer than that."

  "First thing tomorrow. I'll check on it myself."

  "Good enough. I hear you carry some weight around here."

  "I'm counting on you to keep it that way. Now, what are we up against?"

  It took most of two hours for Gabe and Stoddard to work out the details of the plan that would, in just over twenty-four hours, separate the President of the United States from a grave threat to his health and possibly to his life. In the process, he would also be separated from his wife and from the presidency itself. Vice President Tom Cooper, a major suspect in Gabe's eyes, would assume the duties of the office, though hopefully not for long.

  Once Stoddard was ensconced in a place o
f absolute security and safety, Gabe would speak with the First Lady and tell her where her husband was. Gabe would also enlist her help in quickly mobilizing the force that would raid the nanotechnology laboratory adjacent to Lily Pad Stables—the lab indirectly responsible for the death of her physician and the transient episodes of insanity that had been threatening to destroy her husband.

  With luck, the scientists in the lab, once they were isolated and interrogated by professionals, would cooperate. With luck, investigators would quickly determine who had hired them and who was paying them. With luck, whoever was poisoning Stoddard and controlling the transmitter would be arrested. And finally, with luck, those ultimately responsible would be brought down.

  "Two days," Gabe said. "Hopefully less. With the whole world looking for you, we need you out of sight for two days. Can The Aerie accomplish that?"

  "You may have read or heard about my grandfather, Bedard Joe Stoddard. He made a fortune in mining, patents of all kinds, and manufacturing by being uncompromising in his business practices and in his opposition to the unions. Some would and did say ruthless opposition. Like many geniuses, B.J. was more than a little eccentric. And also like many geniuses, there were detractors who felt he often crossed over that invisible line between eccentricity and madness."

  "Most of my family simply skipped the eccentric step," Gabe said.

  "Well, at some point B.J. decided he needed a refuge that was both isolated and secure. That's why he built The Aerie—modeled stone-by-stone after a medieval castle in northern England he once visited and photographed. He brought in trainloads of foreign laborers—mostly the Chinese who had worked on the railroads. He designed the maze of dirt roads leading into the forest himself. Most of them simply stopped, or became endless loops. The roads that eventually would make it up to The Aerie were and are a closely guarded secret."

  "But they're marked on the map you gave me."

  "I don't think there are more than a half a dozen copies of that map in existence, so take good care of it."

  "If the press finds out that's where you were hiding, there'll be more gawkers making their way up there than to the Grand Canyon."

  "Hopefully, they'll all get lost in the forest. The whole project took eight years to complete," Stoddard went on. "Decades later, my father spent many more years upgrading the place, adding to B.J.'s bizarre collection of medieval weapons and instruments of torture, and increasing security there. He once told me that in the event of a nuclear attack, I was to eschew the bunker here at the White House and get the heck up to The Aerie, which he called the safest place in the world."

  "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered," Gabe said, realizing only after he had invoked the platitude that it was actually funny. "How often does your father use the place?"

  "Essentially never. He's much more into entertaining and wheeler-dealing on his yacht. It's been a long time since I was last there, but even then the place had fallen into pretty sad disrepair."

  "Sounds perfect for us," Gabe said.

  "It is perfect—especially if you get off on cobwebs plus the arcane and macabre. Wait until you get a load of it."

  "I'm aimin' to do just that before it gets dark tonight. Now, I need two things from you."

  "Name them."

  "I want your promise to hole up here with Carol. For the time being, please, please tell her as little as possible. She may not believe that this business is as serious as it is, but she never got to watch Jim Ferendelli die like I did. Also, Lily Sexton was her friend. It may take some doing for her to believe Lily's involvement in all this. I don't know the range of those transmitters, but I don't want to take any chances on losing my only patient. I don't know what killed Lily, either, but if someone wants you dead, being a patient in a hospital is only slightly safer than sleeping on a firing range."

  "You think she was a loose end?"

  "As soon as Ferendelli made contact with me and I got away, I think the rules might have changed from 'make Drew look crazy' to 'make Drew be dead.' That's why I'm so worried about you."

  "I appreciate that."

  "Okay then, back to Carol. Clear everyone out of this apartment. No help, no valets, no Secret Service agents. Have her intercept anyone who makes it past the agents downstairs and watch them as they go back down in the elevator. Any argument from anyone, even someone like Magnus, and she needs to call the Palace Guards immediately."

  "You have my word. What's the second thing?"

  "Money. Cash. I'll need lots of it, and maybe a few wallets to stick it in. Can you do that?"

  "I have a reliable banker at First Washington Trust. I'll give you a check and make a phone call."

  "Just don't tell him why."

  "I don't think I'll have to. Walter really belongs in one of those banks in Switzerland or Grand Cayman. He loves the chance to be discreet almost as much as he loves having people know how discreet he is."

  "Then you're going to arrange for our evening ride, yes?"

  "As soon as you leave, I'll set things up. We've got some damn fine horses out at the stables near Camp David."

  "I want it to get dark an hour or so after we disappear. At first we'll need to see what we're doing, but then I want to make it as difficult as possible for the people who are looking for you."

  "Now, why would they want to be doing that?"

  "Beats me. You're only the president. Drew, I know this has got to be hard for you. It's tough getting bossed around when you're used to being the capo del capo. But please believe me, we're doing the right thing—the only thing."

  "Why can't we just—?"

  "Just what? Arrest everyone? It was horrible watching Jim collapse and stop breathing the way he did. He could have had a hundred Secret Service men around him, a thousand, and the outcome would have been the same."

  Stoddard drummed his fingertips together, and Gabe could tell that he was scanning every possibility for how he might deal with the threat to his health and life and still remain president.

  "You have the map I drew marking where you should leave the ATV?" he asked finally.

  "Right here."

  "Remember, I haven't been there for years, so there's no vouching for accuracy."

  "I'm planning on making a trial run up there later today."

  "Just call if you get lost."

  "That reminds me. Do you have a cell phone I can borrow? Mine was in my pocket along with my wallet when I went for the big swim."

  Drew padded to the bedroom and returned with a check and a cell phone.

  "Careful now," he said, handing the cell phone over. "Push the concealed button by mistake and you wipe out Moscow."

  The two friends stood quietly for a time, then shook hands and finally embraced.

  "Where're you going to start?" Stoddard asked.

  "I have some errands to run, but first I'm going to see just how easy it is to buy a car and get it on the road when all I have is cash."

  "My money's on you. I just spoke a little to Carol and told her what's in store for us. She says she trusts you to do what's best for her husband."

  "Thank her for me, Drew."

  "I knew I did the right thing bringing you out here from Wyoming,"

  "And I knew I did the right thing voting for you."

  CHAPTER 53

  BIG AL, THE CAR BUYER'S PAL.

  The slogan, complete with a caricature of the man, was painted on a sign that rose from the top of a shacklike office, overlooking a lot of forty or so used cars, festooned with red, white, and blue balloons.

  While Gabe was working over and over through the elements of the plan that was designed to save the presidency of Andrew Stoddard and possibly the man's life as well, Big Al Kagan was working over every cliché in his automobile buyer's Blue Book in an effort to sell Gabe a late-model Bordeaux red Chevrolet Impala, with CD changer, power sunroof, factory alloys, and cruise control.

  "All you need to do," Big Al was saying, "is just take this baby out for a drive, just
a quick spin around the block and out Sixty-six for a few miles, and you'll be belting yourself in for the long haul."

  "What do you need?"

  "Just your license and I'll hook a dealer's plate on this puppy and you're off."

  "I . . . um . . . don't have a license right now. My wallet was stolen."

  "ID?"

  Gabe thought about the handwritten introductory note folded in his pocket from the president to banker Walter Immelman—a note he never even had to use to get twenty thousand dollars in cash.

  "Nope."

  "Do you have a trade-in?"

  "No, I sold my other car."

  "Well, then you must have the plates."

  "I . . . well, yes, yes, I do have one."

  "One is enough."

  "If I get the plate, can I just take the car?"

  "Of course, once I get a little paperwork done. But don't you want to take her for a little—?"

  Stoddard's cell phone cut the bewildered dealer short. It was playing "Hail to the Chief."

  "Give me a couple of minutes, Big Al," Gabe said, walking ten yards away to lean against a silver Infiniti with air, CD changer, low mileage, Bridgestone Turanzas, and a red balloon.

  "Ellen?"

  "Hey there, cowboy."

  "Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

  Gabe pictured the trim, seasoned veterinarian seated in her pine-paneled office, just outside of Tyler, surrounded by photos and children's drawings and paintings of horses. Dozens and dozens of horses. In fact, her office chair and those in her modest waiting room were hand-tooled western saddles, transformed with backs and legs by the grateful owner of a patient.

  "In no time at all, you've become a legend in these parts, Gabe."

  "I promise to undo that misconception just as soon as I get back home."

  "Before you go and do any undoing, my kids will want your autograph and a signed photo of your boss."

  "Tell them if they want a legend, they don't have to look any further than their mom. . . . Okay, okay. Harry and—"

  "Sarah, with an h. Harry and Sarah. Make it one for each."